


Like The Fox

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Endverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the line from 'The Little Prince'. End!verse. 'Castiel reads paperbacks.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like The Fox

Castiel reads paperbacks.

Little, paper-bound tomes in faded yellow and robin’s-egg blue, children’s classics, mediocre porn with heaving bodices and _beast-like desires_ that make him chuckle as he turns the pages, and make Dean turn and glare. ( _“Are you even listening?” “I got the gist. Suicide run, blah blah.”)_ He’s lucky that he can still read in different languages; he devours Proust and Tolstoy, French novels about smoking and making love in dark hotel rooms, Thomas Mann and Nabakov and trashy murder-mysteries with sultry secretaries and dashing, dark-haired protagonists in trenchcoats (he laughs at those, too). 

He’s slumped in the grass, head nestled where the weeds have grown longish, the book lifted above his head. His legs rest on the tree which hangs ragged and gnarled above him, undersized, overripe peaches poised to drop. The air is thick and sickly, the hottest day they’ve had in a long time, and Castiel hopes vaguely, turning pages, that the smell of rotting flesh from over the border of the camp won’t carry.

He pauses, thumb on the sentence he’s reached, when Dean’s head swims into vision above him, upside-down. The branches of the tree are wilting, brushing against Dean’s hair when he blocks the sunlight as it filters through.

The peaches are black-purple, their yellowed flesh cracking out from the inside. _Low-hanging fruit,_ he thinks, the thought swimming forth unhelpfully, and a grin cracks its way onto his face like the insides of the peaches making their way to the air.

Dean’s lip curls in anticipatory disgust, as if the smile itself, too, were overripe, nearly rotten, dripping.

“C’mon, Holden Caulfield. We’re going out.” His boot brushes the top of Castiel’s head, nudging him not ungently, and Castiel sighs and folds the book, letting his arm list to the side so he can drop it in the grass. It will be there when he comes back, or it won’t. He doesn’t really mind, either way.

 

* * *

 

Out, rocking along in the truck with his arm half-out the window, the sleeves of his loose shirt rolled up, he turns to Dean.

“What do you think _The Little Prince_ is about? I mean, really?”

Dean looks at him, nonplussed. “Uh. I don’t know. Never read it. That’s the one with the roses, right?”

“There’s a rose, yes.”

“You’re reading it in the French?”

“It’s easier that way. Translations are a hassle.”

Dean nods slowly, eyes on the road. In the back, jostling, are Risa and Chuck, the prophet faintly uncomfortable, twisting his hands in the fabric of his pants as Risa tells him a story (possibly about the run she and Cas did the week before, when she fought off a Croat with her bare hands, and ripped the nose clean off its face when a two-by-four as it staggered back. He’d whistled, impressed, at the time, and then they’d hurried on. She hadn’t stopped telling the story all week.) Dean looks at Castiel when he thinks he’s not watching, gaze measured and still.

“You okay, man? You’ve been reading a lot, lately.”

Castiel shrugs, rolls his shoulders in a long, lazy wave that continues to the base of his spine. Something cracks, and he smiles at the release. He dabs his fingers against the side of the truck, enjoying the soft, blunt sound of his digits on the hot metal, the way the sun tans his forearms. He has long since ceased to be quite so white. Couple of weeks like this, and he’ll almost look like Dean. “Caught the bug, I guess. Speaking of which, have you ever read Kafka’s _Metamorphosis?”_

Dean shakes his head. “Not much of a reader.” He murmurs, and Castiel looks at him. “Not anymore, I mean.”

“I could lend you something.”

Dean laughs, caught off-guard. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Castiel shrugs, again; _Whatever,_ and leans his head out of the window, letting the slipstream catch him in the face. Dean’s eyes go to him once, twice, and Castiel can almost feel the admonishment before he says it.

“Do you have to do that, Cas? You look like a damned dog.”

“I like it.” He replies blithely, leaning in briefly so Dean can hear him, then leaning out again. Immediately after – Castiel is convinced that God’s sense of humor, if he’s still there, is mostly founded in irony and sarcasm – he swallows a bug, a large, black fly which he half-vomits into his palm, forcing him inside. Dean laughs even as he claps him on the back, asking if he’s okay.

“I’m fine.” He says absently; the fly, about the size of the nail of his little finger, twitches its wings valiantly, coated in saliva, then goes still. He rolls it between his two hands, and tosses it out the window, but its wet wings stick to his skin. He peels them off, grimacing, but they fragment, clinging to his palm in half-transparent little sections. He picks them out from under his nails. 

The truck rolls up to the edge of town; across the front there is a barricade, a sign on a new-built chain-link fence, that reads;

 

**BY ORDER OF THE GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA**

**THIS AREA IS UNDER QUARANTINE**

**ENTRY IS PERMITTED ONLY BY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL**

 

Risa jumps down from the back of the truck as Cas gets out, and laughs gently at it, even as she pulls her rifle from her back.

“A sign. _Scary.”_ She tips her head at Castiel. “You gonna shoot, or are you just an extra pair of hands?” Chuck jumps out after her, hesitating before he takes the plunge, his too-big boots hitting the dust with an uncoordinated thump. He corrects himself quickly, meets Castiel’s sympathetic smile with his own nervous one, and they wait for Dean to round the truck, bags in tow. He tosses one to Risa, one to Cas, and a third to Chuck, which is empty. Cas reaches inside the bag, pulls out a handgun, a short, weighty thing, unlike the heft of Dean’s shotgun.

“Guess I’m going to shoot.” He tells Risa, eyebrows raised, and Dean stands in front of him, un-loading and re-loading his rifle, a habit he’s grown into lately, borne out of nervousness or pressure. Castiel meets his eyes, once, but Dean turns away, towards the city, grip firm on the gun in his hands. He speaks to the fence instead of to them, which Castiel feels is a little…melodramatic, to say the least; he glances at Chuck to tell him as much, but the prophet is staring ahead through the fence, unarmed, and his hands are shaking. Castiel tries to catch his eye – to smile, to try and calm him down, because a man panicking on a run like this isn’t helpful – but he’s transfixed. Blank.

Dean says, “We get in, we grab what’s useful, we get out. Got it?” He looks first at Cas, then at Risa, who nod without hesitation; then at Chuck, whose trembling does not stop. “Chuck? You in there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

“You asked to come on the run, remember?” This is Dean’s ‘soothing’ voice; or as soothing as it gets. He’s talked more than one man off the precipice at this point, Castiel included (though the evening in question is a blur to him, now). “If you think you’re going to do something stupid, stay in the truck.”

Chuck glances at Dean, then at the mouth of the city. “Can I have a gun?”

Dean shakes his head. “Only thing worse than a nervous guy is a nervous guy with a gun. Risa might teach you how to handle one when you get back –“ he tips a smile at Risa, who returns it, “If you’re lucky enough.” He looks briefly at Cas for input and, receiving nothing, points two fingers at Risa and Chuck.

“You want medical supplies. There should be less Croats around there; less food. We want shots, we want anything sterile, painkillers if you can get ‘em – nothing over the counter. No point.” Castiel coughs gently.

“Can you get heat spray?” he asks Risa, ignoring Dean, and Risa raises one brow as she pats herself, checking that every one of her weapons and bags is in place.

“You got backache, old man?" 

“It’s-“ He doesn’t want to say _It’s my wings,_ doesn’t want to say _I’m a little off-balance._ Doesn’t want to say anything, really, but Risa won’t get the spray without an answer so he grins, instead.  “Only a little. They say fifty million is the new forty.”

Risa snorts, rolling her eyes, but nods. “Alright. We will if we can.” She looks at Chuck. “Ready?”

Chuck’s trembling has calmed a little, at least. He nods, jaw shaking minutely, but otherwise resolute. Risa pulls back a section of the chain-link fence – they’ve been here before, then – and holds it back for Chuck to walk through. As they move away, Castiel sees Risa gesture for Chuck to get behind her, rifle held out in front, legs slow and firm. He admires her, as much as he’s able to admire any human. She’s hot-headed and kindof a pain in the ass sometimes, but a good woman.

Speaking of being a pain in the ass – Dean nudges him with his elbow. “Coming, Cas? Or did you leave a book in the car you wanna finish?”

“No, Dean.” He smiles. “I’m all yours.”

Dean laughs soberly and they go under the section of fence together when he pulls it back; Castiel whispers once they’re inside. Word is that the place has been pretty much clear for months, every Croat either dead or moved on, but Word is almost never accurate.

“So what’re _we_ here for?” He saw it in Dean’s eyes even before they went on the run; the tension, the worry, that means this isn’t just a routine supply mission. Dean almost _never_ chooses to go alone with Cas on runs, too afraid of what people might _think,_ or of being accused of favouritism. Castiel knows that people around camp say things about them; about Dean, about Cas. People say a lot of things, and he has learned that very few of them are worth considering, but it appears that the same lesson has (at least in this respect) passed Dean by.

Dean grunts, toeing his way through the rubble. There are bullet-holes in the buildings, casings scattered at their feet. Pools of congealed blood are scattered around, some of it still wet. Castiel frowns at it as he follows, cradling his own handgun, glad of its weight, for once. “Rufus sent a message. Said there was a nest up here.”

“Croats don’t make _nests.”_

Dean looks at him briefly, expression dull. “No, they don’t. Demons do, though.” He walks a little faster; rounding a corner with swift, resolute care, barrel of the gun pointed straight out in front of him. Castiel jogs a little to catch up. He frowns.

“And we’re interfering with demons be _cause-“_

“Because they know where the colt is.” Dean tells him, pressing a hand to a doorway, the surface of which is riddled with holes. There’s a mark scratched into it that Castiel recognises immediately, and it seems that Dean does too.

“They’re tryin’ to keep angels out.”

Castiel laughs. “Good. They haven’t heard of me.”

Dean’s eye on him is hesitant, reproachful, but he says nothing. Just hefts his gun a little higher, grip slipping in the heat, skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. A bead rolls down from the thatch of his hair and drips over his forehead. Castiel watches the path – a little rapt, a little mad with excitement about finding this nest, however much of a fool’s errand it is. Looking for demons – inviting their contact – is idiotic, ridiculous really, and at least one of them is going to limp home tonight, if they get home at all, but knowing they don’t know he is Fallen fills him with a strange sort of wanting, softer and more ironic, perhaps, than simple bloodlust.

Still, Dean leads – now across the barren street, stepping over the body of a blank-faced child – and Castiel will follow.

* * *

They find the nest easily enough; anti-angel warding aside, someone wants to be found, and when they get into the thing – a bar, of all places. Castiel tries not to roll his eyes – the Demons seem unsurprised to see them. 

They crash through the front door side by side, Dean knocking the door in and levelling his shotgun at the head of the ‘leader’, who is clear from the way he strides forward – he’s blonde, blue eyed, weary – looking, covering it with a smile. He kicks out his chair from underneath him and stands – opens his mouth to deliver some sort of cackling, psyche-out speech, and manages “We-“ before Dean cocks his rifle and blows him away.

Carving the devil’s traps into their bullets had been Dean’s idea. Faced with the twitching, writhing demon on the floor, now, Cas is even more impressed with its effectiveness. The other demons rise from their seats – Cas and Dean put them down before they can utter a syllable, shooting for the head automatically, used to dealing with Croats. In seconds the bar is filled with immobile bodies, slumped across bars, not a speck of blood between them. Dean, hard-faced, walks quickly across the room and kicks at the leader’s face, turning it over. Splayed on the floor, bullet buried in his forehead, the demon almost _growls._

“You _fucker._ Dean _fucking Winchester._ ” He hisses, spit dribbling from the corner of his mouth, hitting the floor. The hole in his forehead is bloodless. Castiel eyes him, lying at their feet, this ancient creature pinned down, much like himself (although Castiel knows whose position he’d rather be in). “Taking it out on the innocent, now that baby bro’s gone rogue?”

Dean slams his boot into the Demon’s face. Castiel doesn’t flinch at the _crack_ it makes.

“Where’s daddy, then?” Dean asks him, crouching next to his face, voice low and soft. “Huh? Where’s pappa gone?”

“Fuck you.” The demon spits, and Dean laughs out loud. He turns to Cas. “Looks like we’ve got us a new friend.” He says. His voice is different like this, thicker, and Castiel tries to remain impassive, even as Dean looks around the room, rising again to his feet. He lifts his foot and grinds his heel into the demon’s broken nose, bloodying his boot. He nods at Cas.

“Think we can lift him all the way back?”

Castiel looks at the demon, appraising him for weight, and nods. “If he goes quietly.”

They smile at each other, wry. The joke is that he doesn’t have much of a choice.

 

* * *

 

Cas gives Chuck shotgun on the way home, as a reward; the littler man came back in (almost) one piece, and thankfully the run was pretty much clean; they’d hit a couple of Croats on the way but no big groups, just stragglers picking through the wreckage, and from what Risa said, they were kids. Easily dispatched.

Risa looks at the demon, lying at their feet in the bed of the truck. She leans her elbows on her knees, and threads her fingers together as she gazes evenly at Cas.

“Thought this was a routine run.” She says, tone laced with irritation, though it’s not directed at Castiel.

“We ran into him by accident.” He ends the sentence on a smile, so she knows he’s kidding, and she leans back, almost out of the truck bed, the long braid of her hair whipping behind her as Dean takes the truck full-pelt. He’s eager to get home. Castiel has no idea how to interpret that.

“Whatever.” She calls over the wind, not looking at him. “Have your secrets. Far as I know, today went well.”

“It did.” He agrees, and the gagged demon tries to spit on him, succeeding only in wetting the cloth in his mouth. Risa laughs at it, at the spit bubbling pathetically from beneath the gag, but Castiel feels only pity, unable to know vindictiveness. He hasn’t hurt them. His only sin is knowing too much.

* * *

Dean finds him in the warm night, sat outside his cabin, the paperback back in his hand. He’s not really reading, eyes skimming the page and taking nothing in. He’s been pathetically, shamelessly, watching Dean walk across the courtyard towards him. Before Dean even comes to stand in front of him, he can smell the blood. 

“You busy?” Dean asks him, pulse jumping at his throat, his hands moving frantically, fitfully, adrenaline with nowhere to go. Lazy, not feeling the urgency, Castiel sets the tented book against his chest.

“Not very.” He says, and Dean nods, then goes into the cabin without another word. There’s a beat, a second where Castiel is alone in the balmy, stifling evening air; where the stars wink at him, their constellations mostly forgotten to him now. He picks out Cassiopeia, Orion’s belt, and falters on the Great Bear. He gives up in seconds.

The book says, _One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye._

What variety of bullshit that is, Castiel can’t quite decide.

Dean appears a moment later in the doorway, face a little affronted, tugging his shirt off in the half-light from inside. He looks at Castiel.

“You coming, or what?”

And Castiel replies, because he always does – “Of course.” Leaving his chair, his book, the evening, behind.

He goes into the cabin, closing the door with his bare foot, sole pressed flat to the wood. Dean looks at him from the bed; his broad back bent, he’s pulling off his boots, resigned to the foregone conclusion of the evening. Castiel knows sometimes, in the mornings, when it will be one of ‘those’ nights, and when he will sleep alone. The two are not mutually exclusive. “Did you get anything out of him?” he asks, and Dean just looks up at him and says, “ _Cas,”_ which answers the question well enough.

It’s hot, hotter perhaps even than the day itself was, inside the cabin; in such a small space it’s hard to keep heat where you want it, be that in or out, and even at this late hour, it’s sweltering, so taking his shirt off is a welcome reprieve. Dean looks tired, eyes tracing him distantly as he drops the shirt to the floor, as he tugs down his loose pants, naked underneath. He shakes the pants from around his foot as he crosses the room, alighting on Dean’s hips, careful. Barely touching him, really.

“It’s okay.” He says, and Dean grunts in response, gets ready to ask him not to speak; but Castiel cuts him off with a kiss, their first that week, and Dean himself shuts up pretty quickly.  Both of them are soft against each other, the strange heat of nakedness surprising Castiel, always; how flesh sticks, and is sticky, and will slide. The noise that comes with a brush of heat, the soft rasp of lip on lip when both mouths are dry. He kisses the bolt of Dean’s jaw, used to him being immobile, at this point; he counts on Castiel for his attentiveness, for knowing what he needs when he has no idea how to ask for it himself. Castiel takes the burden, knows its weight. He mouths beneath his ear, hands kneading the flesh of Dean’s hips, rocking softly against him. There is nothing between them, no fervency, not anymore; they are used to each other, comfortable,  and they’ll get there eventually; it’s been a long, trying day, and it makes no sense to add to the hassle, yet. Or the heat.

Dean draws his face up eventually, kisses him back; he wraps his hands over Castiel’s back, touching his hands to the wings of his shoulderblades, fingers against where his bones move, under his skin. Dean likes to hold him, likes to be held; he has the occasional one night stand, will stray like a dog does, at the first promise of a hot meal, of respite, but he always returns to this place. To the once-angel who sleeps in his cabin, who wakes every morning with the dawn.

“Nothing.” Dean murmurs against his mouth, hands trailing down to Castiel’s naked ass, palming the flesh there, working his way down to his thighs, where he rests them, thumbs rubbing circles on the bones of his hips. “He didn’t know anything.”

Castiel has no answers of any worth, but he tries. He pulls back, leans his forehead on Dean’s, too close to really see his face. “There will be other demons.” He says softly, punctuating it with a kiss pressed gently to Dean’s top lip. He doesn’t ask _are you alright?_ Because they both know the answer is _no._

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, tension going hopelessly out of him, breathing coming a little faster when Castiel moves his hand down to his belly, to his still-soft cock. “Yeah, I guess so.” He sounds little convinced, but buries his face in Castiel’s shoulder when he starts stroking, pulls him tighter, close. His hands roam absently the flesh of Castiel’s hips, brushing the hair on his thighs back and forth, hand splaying against his stomach, trailing down as if there’s no real destination in mind. He knows that this is enough for Cas – Dean under him, Dean in his hand. It’s always been this way, as if Dean is the only thing Castiel is capable of imagining, and it takes little effort on Dean’s part to get him breathless and flushed, blind with want.

Dean moves underneath him, finally getting into it, cock filling in Castiel’s hand. Dean’s breath is hot, too hot, against his neck, but there’s nothing either of them can do about it. Like Dean told a frustrated camp resident just that morning; no A/C here, and even if you found a unit – by some strange miracle – there wouldn’t be enough power to waste on it.

He’s sweating.

He’s sometimes a little ashamed of how easily Dean can get him; of how he’ll be there functionally, casually, barely in the moment at all, one second, and then Dean will do something – move a certain way, make a sound in his throat, _breathe_ on a part of Castiel that is just _right, somehow,_ and suddenly he’s there with him, keening into his hands, taking him apart with reverence, though neither of them deserve it. Like now, for instance; Dean pushes up into his hand, makes a noise; it’s nothing really, an aborted cough, at best; but it makes something surge inside Castiel, something unfathomable and larger than the both of them, and it wracks his body, holds him tight, gets him hard and _aching_ between them in the space of seconds, making Dean laugh.

“Was gonna ask if you were still here.” He tells Cas’ shoulder, and Castiel lets go of his cock, takes him by the shoulders instead, grinds them together with his hips, hands gripping him tightly. He slips in the sweat, skin tacky and strange, but allowing for the pull and drag of them against each other, the sensation ebbing in and out, almost lazy, getting them nowhere really, but keeping them on the edge of it, all the same. Dean pulls him closer still with one arm wrapped around his back, pressing them chest-to-chest, close enough that Cas’ cock is flush against his stomach, leaking, moving, slipping across him in the mess of sweat and pre-come between them.

 The arm not wrapped around his back is resting on his thigh, still; even with Castiel rutting against him, breath sharp, Dean’s ministrations are gentle and sure, frustratingly so. Dean touches everyone like he loves them, like they’re important; he has more tenderness with a stranger than most have with their own mothers, and Castiel can’t even find it in him to feel offended. He moves and takes them both in hand, frustrated with the pace, with the way the heat building under his skin is making him feel housed, irritable, dirty with sweat and the day clinging to him.

It’s not perfect – Cas can fit a hand around the both of them, but they’re so close that the angle is too awkward, sweat stopping him from finding any purchase, hand slipping up and down too, too fast. He settles for listening to the noise Dean makes; the tiny changes in the hitching of his breath, the way he rolls his hips into Castiel’s hand, mouth still buried in his shoulder, pressing wet, breathy kisses against him, still. Castiel pulls his head up to kiss him and almost misses, hand fisted in the hair at the back of his neck. He catches his cheek, then his mouth, a flash of irritation going through him when Dean laughs at his impatience.

Dean, he knows, would be content to stroke him slowly all night; to remain on the precipice, as long as they were close together, as long as they could kiss. Risa told him, in awkward confidence, that when she and Dean slept together the first – and, she said, _last,_ \- time, she could barely tug him away from foreplay, barely get him to actually fuck her, so fascinated was he with kissing her inner thighs, with nosing at the hair between her legs and kissing her, licking her, keeping her on the edge and then letting her go. Eventually, she said lightly, she’d threatened to leave. Castiel had received the information in silence.

He moves his hand from Dean’s face, their cocks still together in his other, and finds his balls, rolls them briefly in his palm before reaching underneath him and pressing his finger against the skin behind them; Dean’s breath hitches in response and it takes less than a minute, then, for him to come with a muttered, _“Cas,”_ spilling over Castiel’s hand and only making things wetter, friction harder to find; Dean’s hand joins his on his cock, pulls him over the edge almost forcibly, taking him by surprise.

After that, as usual, there is only the thud of his slowly calming heartbeat in his ears; the silence of the camp at two AM, when only idiots like them are still awake.

Dean’s eyes, raking his face, are already distant.

He stays. Brushes a hand through Castiel’s hair, thumb lingering against his temple. Castiel gets out of his lap and they crawl to the head of the bed; lie apart, too hot to touch, trading stilted, lazy kisses. Dean buries his hand in Castiel’s hair, his other curled around his hip, when he finally falls asleep.

Castiel doesn’t sleep; not often, though he knows he should. He stares absently at Dean’s sleeping face until morning, skin feeling weighted down with dirt and unease. He’s so close he could do anything to him, now; kiss him or coax him into waking and fuck him, slow and easy, with his fingers. Could try for something a little more _romantic,_ maybe; kiss the lids of his eyes, tell him – something. Anything. He doesn’t, though.

He gets up at 5am, when the sun pushes its way unwieldy into the room, and puts a pair of pants on, not really caring about someone seeing him. He sits on the edge of the bed, Dean snoring, naked, behind him, for entirely too long. Down Dean’s back are pinkish scars, are the puckers of hastily-sewn wounds that Castiel could not heal. The handprint is fading to a darker flesh tone, and eventually, he supposes, it will be entirely gone.

He goes out onto the porch, and retrieves his book.

It said, this funny little tome; _Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé_.

He ruminates on it as he walks across the camp; as the warm soles of his feet tread across the space between the cabin and the room that Dean left the night before, a little room without a name, because any name they could give it would give the game away.

It stinks like the peaches, stinks with that strange, fruity smell of shit, the sweet, nauseating stench of blood and piss. Castiel opens the door to look on Dean’s handiwork; the eviscerated corpse of what was once a man, strewn about this room, barely recognisable as human-shaped. There is salt, yes, but moreso there is steel, silver, ash. Blood has puddled in the chair where the demon once slumped, but the body has long fallen forward over itself, onto the floor.

He stands in the doorway for only a moment, taking it all in, before he turns away.

Back in the cabin, in the soft, yellowed light of the morning, he will crawl back into bed beside Dean. Kiss a line up his spine, smile when Dean snores. He’ll whisper his love into Dean’s ear, close as he can, not caring if he hears, and curve into the shape of him, so no light can shine between them. He’ll curl in the warm space on the bed like cat, maybe rouse him later in the day, if there’s nothing planned, and fuck him slow and sweet, muttering platitudes and admonishments and reassurance on his skin.

But there is a moment before he does it, where he stands on the porch and remembers those words, again; _Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé._

_You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed._

And he’ll think that he doesn’t know who has tamed whom. He’ll think that, either way, they are both responsible. 


End file.
